After the Attack:
by Potter fanwriter 32
Summary: The effects the dementors had on Dudley Dursley. Review! **I do not own Harry Potter, J.K. Rowling does**
1. The Nightmares

A small boy of about nine was running. Fast. His hand-me-down sneakers were slipping on the loose gravel on the side of the road, his shaggy black hair whipping away from his face, where there was a thin scar on his forehead and where a pair of broken glasses, scotch-taped together, rested crookedly on his nose.

A large, beefy boy of about the same age, though he looked several years older because the younger boy was so thin and short, was chasing him and laughing. His gang was running behind. "Get him!" he shouted, laughing.

The smaller boy's sneakers were so worn out that they finally gave way so he slipped and fell. The gang tackled him, a boy named Piers twisting his arms behind his back, and the little boy shouting, "Ow! Let me go!" and the older one socking him in the nose so that his glasses snapped again. The gang laughed.

The boy tried to stand, saying, "Why are you so mean to me, Dudley? I haven't done anything to you!"  
Dudley said, "Oh, is little Harry going to cry?" And shoved him back down again. The gang fled, Dudley kicking him as Harry looked for the shards of his broken glasses, tears welling in his eyes.

Dudley Dursley woke up gasping. Oh, God, not another dream. The collar of his T-shirt was soaked in sweat, his heart thudding uneasily under his shirt. He breathed deeply, feeling tense, and then sat up in bed and wiped his brow with the back of him arm. He had been having these dreams ever since the attack.

The attack.

He ran his hand over his hair, where sweat was prickling his scalp. He had tried hard to forget that horrible night, but the memory was still vivid in his mind.

He remembered the cold, scary feeling that had swept over him, his heart-hammering fear that sent a chill up his spine. The feeling that he would never be happy again, as if all the good memories were sucked out of him, and then something-something invisible-had grabbed him so forcefully he nearly fell over his feet, and pinned him against the cold, hard brick floor where he had slipped and fallen-and then suddenly-he couldn't breathe, he couldn't see, he could feel only cold, empty darkness, and the worst memories of his life had come flooding back, every happy memory he had ever had was gone. It seemed to go on like that for several hours, even though it had been just been maybe five minutes. And then-Dudley stopped right then and there. Something had dawned on him.

It was not Harry who had caused that; It was Harry who had saved him. The minute Harry had pointed his wand at him and shouting something he could not remember, whatever mysterious, strangling grip that had held him disappeared, and he was lying on the cold, hard ground, a chill still hanging in the air.

He was confused and dazed and in a pool of cold sweat, and then he passed out. Not long after, he felt Harry's arm tight around his neck, trying to get him home. His legs and arms felt paralyzed and his mouth and teeth and tongue were locked up tight, as if he could not get a word out if he tried. His face was white as a sheet and drenched in sweat, and rush a dizziness in his head. He could feel his heart thudding violently under his shirt, and the blood pounding in his ears. His body throbbed and shook. Harry was dragging him along, and he felt as if he were in a dream-like state. The last thing he remembered was vomiting on the porch of Number Four Privet Drive, and then passing out again.

And then he woke up the next day, in bed. All that day he felt groggy and angry, in and out of sleep. (His mother later informed him that after taking him to the doctor, the doctor had prescribed something to make him sleep, because he was so shook up and confused no one could make sense of him.)

The next day was normal. Sort of.

And then the dreams began.

But unlike all the dreams-or rather, nightmares-Dudley had had in his fifteen years of life, these were real. They were memories of his past, but seen differently, as if he were watching himself from afar, trying to make them stop, trying to take back what he had said, but the dreams just sped ahead. The dreams that made him see, for the first time in his life, what a terrible person he was.

…...

To Be Continued


	2. A Visit from Harry

It was three o' clock in the morning. Dudley was so tired he felt as if could sleep for weeks, but he was forcing himself to stay awake. He could not bear to fall asleep and experience any more of those terrible memories, memories that for the first time made him realize what a terrible person he was. Dudley shoved his book aside and pulled his knees up to his chin, yawning. Normally he never read, but the television would make too much noise. At least it was a way to stay awake. He looked out to the still, dark, moon-lit sky, staring there until the clock switched from three o' clock to three-fifteen. But how long could he stay awake like this? Certainly not more than a day or two. Sighing, he rolled over onto his back and stared at the cracks of his ceiling.

Sleep.

God, he needed to sleep. It was the fifth day of these torturous nightmares, and each night, Dudley stayed up at late as he possibly could, as not to face them. But even during the day, when he feel asleep by accident, the nightmares still haunted him, and they stayed vivid in his mind while he was awake. He couldn't think and was angry all the time.

But he was going to have to face those nightmares. He closed his eyes and in minutes was fast asleep.

… ...

Harry and Dudley were six years old. It was Christmas Day. Dudley came tearing down the stairs at five o' clock am, just as Harry was coming out of his cupboard under the stairs. "Happy Christmas, Dudley," Harry said excitedly. "I made you a present-see?" But Dudley shoved Harry out of the way. "Shut up! I want to get my presents!" He said. "You didn't get anything for Christmas, did you Harry?" He taunted. "Why didn't your parents give you anything? Oh, I forget-they're dead!"_What kind of a person would say that?_ Dudley thought, watching the horror play. _Me, _he thought miserably.

In the dreams, Dudley was always watching from afar, but could not run or escape the nightmare; it was like his feet were planted firmly to the ground and all he could do was watch.

Dudley tried to run, but it was like one of the classic nightmares where a giant monster was chasing you and you couldn't run. _That's me, I'm the giant monster_.

The dream raced ahead; and Dudley was catching snippets of memory: his gang beating up Harry; tearing up Harry's homework so his teacher would holler at him; stealing his pocket money before Uncle Vernon stopped giving it to him, the only thing he had that wasn't Dudley's throwaway. He thrashed and writhed in bed, sweat running down his face and mixing with his tears.

When he finally woke up, it was ten am and the sun shone through the windows. They were finally over._ I need to see Harry_, Dudley thought, wiping his teary eyes. _I need to apologize for all these years. _

Vernon and Petunia were very concerned about Dudley-he was pale and tense all day, as well as tired and groggy from his lack of sleep, and his nightmares were so awful they were often at his bedside as he shook and sweated. When he tried to explain to them what was happening he couldn't; or they didn't understand. When they questioned him about anything, he angrily snapped at them. He didn't spend any time with his gang of friends anymore, because all they did was vandalize the playground and beat up ten-year-olds. And Dudley didn't get any pleasure from those activities anymore. And he was always asking for Harry.

Vernon and Petunia settled in the living room on a cool summer night with their cups of tea to watch the ten o' clock news, though the TV was low and they whispered with their heads together about Dudley, in tense, nervous voices; sometimes Petunia broke down sobbing about Poor Popkin. Usually, they knew, Dudley was out with friends at this hour, but for the past week...well, they knew something was wrong. "Why won't he let us take him to a doctor?" Vernon asked.

"I don't know but something is not right...what do you think...they...they...you know...did to him that night?"  
"The...the...dementoids?" Vernon asked.

"_Dementors_, Vernon-" With her sister having been Lily, a witch, Petunia knew these things- "I don't know what they do to people, but we've got to do something-I can't see Dudley go on like this-"  
"And Smeltings starts in two weeks-"  
"Poor Dudders, he's so miserable all the time-"

"He won't hardly eat much..."  
"He's angry all the time..."

"What do you suppose the nightmares are about, Petunia, the...the...attack?"  
"I don't know...I suspect they are...

… ...

Harry Potter didn't understand why in a million years the Dursleys would be asking him to come back to Privet Drive; but Uncle Vernon had said that Dudley had said it was very, very important for Dudley, who was in very bad condition, apparently, to see him. Harry didn't understand that the dementor attack had had this much effect on Dudley, or why it would make Dudley want to see him, but he'd find out soon enough. Mr. Weasley had offered to take him to Privet Drive when the Dursleys' letter arrived, as Harry was staying with the Weasleys' at Headquarters until the school year started.

Petunia and Vernon were in Privet Drive's kitchen with Dudley, and when they saw Harry, they said nothing-they were tight-lipped and angry that he was there, of course.

But Dudley wasn't. "Harry," he said.

"Er...well...Dudley wants to...er...speak with you, Harry...we'll be leaving, I suppose..." Uncle Vernon said and he and Petunia edged into the living room.

Dudley, you don"t look too good," Harry said, sitting down in the kitchen. His big, beefy cousin had lost some weight and his face was pale and a little sweaty. His eyes were not the usual cocky ones but nervous, tense, lost ones.

In a tone Harry had never heard his cousin use before, he asked in a quiet, helpless voice, "Harry-what"s wrong with me?" There were tears in his voice. Harry was taken off guard. "What do you mean, Dudley?" He asked softly. "I...I'm being tortured by these dreams! I can't sleep at night and I can't think straight during the day because of them-" "What dreams, Dudley?" Harry asked gently. But Dudley didn't answer, he only said guiltily, "Harry, I'm so sorry. For all those years that I treated you like rubbish...I"m so sorry. These dreams made me see what a bitch I was."

Was Dudley Dursley actually apologizing to him? And admitting that he was horrible person?  
Harry was shocked. And he heard himself saying, "You're not a bitch, Dudley."  
"Yes I am," Dudley said. "I was terrible to you. I treated you like rubbish when you were nice to me. We probably could have been as close as brothers when were young, but was too stupid. I laughed at you when you were upset and thought it was funny that your parents were dead...you didn't deserve that, Harry-I didn't mean it...I don't know what was going through my head...I don't want to be hated anymore...please, will you forgive me, Harry?" Dudley was nearly sobbing.  
"It's okay, Dudley," Harry said. "I forgive you."

Was he seriously making amends with Dudley, after all these years? He should be glad that Dudley was finally getting what he deserved, but Harry didn't want to see him suffer like that. He did blame a lot of Dudley on his parents' poor upbringing of him...but still...

But he honestly did forgive Dudley, even after all those years. It was that apology Harry had always wished Dudley was say,

Then he asked, again, "Harry, what is wrong with me? Mum and Dad...they don't understand what that night...what those...things did to me..."  
"It"s the dementors, Dudley," Harry said simply. "Dementors. The big cloaked, flying-" "I couldn"t see them," Dudley interrupted. "Oh, I suppose only magic people can. But dementors-the things that attacked you-they make you relive the worst memories of your life."  
"I didn"t know I had any bad memories. And then I realized my entire life was a horrible memory, because I treated everyone like rubbish."

"Dementors can do that to you," Harry said. "When I was attacked, I would hear my mother screaming."  
Dudley was quiet for a moment before saying, "Harry, how can I make them stop? I figured you...of all people...I mean, being magic and all...would know..." Harry sighed. "We'll see Dumbledore. He'll know what to do."

"Who?

TBC


End file.
